


A Pair of Cottages

by ConstantlyTiredReader



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Cute, Domestic Fluff, Edgepuff - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Terminal illness, Mostly Fluff, Papyrus/Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29874216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantlyTiredReader/pseuds/ConstantlyTiredReader
Summary: Deep in the forbidden forest, there lie two cottages: one belonging to a witch, and the other to his neighbour.In one cottage, Edge would like to live in peace and quiet, growing herbs and raising his many cats. Next door, Papyrus enjoys cooking in his kitchen, dancing to music in the sunshine.However, appearances aren't always what they seem.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), edgepuff - Relationship
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	A Pair of Cottages

The cottage smells of freshly turned soil, dark and earthy and rich. Faintly, Edge can breathe in hints of lavender, rosemary, and sage, hanging in neat rows from his kitchen ceiling to dry, a familiar perfume in his home. Soul calm, he sits curled up into his heavily patched armchair, sifting through another old tome as one of his cats purrs in his lap. 

Exactly as he likes it.

Heavy curtains filter out most of the sunlight from his windows, not that he tends to get much at this hour of the day; from Edge’s experience, the acres of tall trees obscure most of it, leaving his home dark. This leaves him squinting to decipher the complex symbols of the old language via candlelight. His candle is low, most of the wax having dripped away into an ever-growing puddle as a testament to how long he has been sitting here. The gentle crackling of the wick being consumed by flame is the only sound save for the odd rustle of paper as he flips pages. Edge traces a sharp phalange against the yellowed parchment, mouth moving silently with the words. Every so often, he strokes the cat’s sleek fur.

The clanging of a loud brass bell ruins this moment of idyllic tranquility. Someone — and likely someone rather foolish at that — must have made the questionable decision to loiter at his front porch. 

Sharply, Edge turns to look at his front door, watching as a thick envelope slides under it. He can distantly hear footsteps, rushing far away in a sprint until he can no longer hear them. Coward. Then again, running away does diminish the level of their stupidity.

Few enter the witch’s woods without leaving unscathed, after all.

Scowling, Edge places a bookmark, setting the tome onto his side table. With great effort, he manages to detach Midnight from his lap, murmuring apologies for committing the sacrilege of disturbing a cat as they rest. Luckily, she decides to join the cuddle pile at his feet with Nyx, Storm, and Soot. Giving each one a quick scritch behind the ears — the last thing he needs is for any of his cats to become jealous of each other — he heads to check on the delivery. Already, he is more than a touch suspicious that it will mean a trip in his near-future.

People never pay attention to the signs, regretfully.

Half of the reason behind committing to moving to the middle of the forbidden forest was to avoid the neverending annoyance of random people barging into his personal affairs all the damn time. Was that too much to ask? All he wants is to tend to his special gardens, harvest his herbs, and spend as much time with his cats as is physically possible. Not play miracle worker for cowards who don’t have the confidence to address the forest witch directly!

Edge doesn’t have to unseal the envelope to see that his premonition was correct. Muttering a curse under his breath, he grabs his dark hat, adjusting it to get the wrinkles out of the pointed end. He also pauses to double-check for any hints of glowing eyes or black fur before putting it on. Salem has taken to hiding in there to nap, as of late. With the confirmation that he has no furry stowaways joining him, Edge slams his front door behind him, cloak swirling in the afternoon wind.

He has someone he needs to see.

* * *

Drenched to the bone, he stood still under the vicious rain as the witch looked at him with eye sockets that saw too much. Shivering, but not because of the cold of the storm.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, hating himself for the way his voice shook. Hoping that maybe, just maybe it could help earn the witch’s sympathy. “I don’t know where else to go.”

The witch considered him, tilting his head slightly to the side. His clothes were drier than a desert, even as he stood but inches away. 

His breath caught in his throat. It was dangerous, coming here, but what else could he do? His brother was so ill, and the healers in all the nearby villages had given up months ago. But he refused to give up, He refused to let his older brother die.

Clearly, the witch must have found something to be acceptable with him. Stepping aside, he ushered him into his abode. “I can help you, dear traveler, but the price will be steep. Life is no fickle thing, you know, and magic always has its demands.”

He nodded, having expected such. “ _Anything_.”

* * *

Cheerily, Papyrus hums along with the Beatles as he stirs his pot, considering his kitchen layout. Although far from empty, several shelves are showcasing a significant lack of key ingredients. One of these days, he really needs to see about refilling his pantry. Oh well! It simply means that he will have to test his ability to make do this fine afternoon. Besides, surely nothing can go wrong with a few substitutions! It’s called creative license; cooking is considered to be an art for a reason, after all!

Dancing his way to the counter, Papyrus indulges himself in a little twirl. Perhaps it doesn’t make the most sense rhythmically with the current section of the song, but it does make a smile break free across his face. Sequined from head to toe in a matching tie-dye jogging suit, each spin he performs in the sun shining through his window makes rainbow reflections dance along with him across the room. He spins faster, delighted as the rainbows follow him. Sometimes, it’s the simple things in life, after all.

“Papyrus!” a very familiar voice shouts, knocking harshly at his front door. If experience hadn’t taught him any better, he would expect the hard wood to splinter apart at the force.

Stepping aside to pause his record, Papyrus wipes his hands clean on his ‘ ~~kiss~~ PLATONICALLY HUG the cook’ apron. “Just a moment!” he calls back, raising his voice to be heard over the incessant pounding. In a single move, he whips the apron off, flinging it behind a conveniently placed lamp. Perhaps it isn’t the neatest solution, but sometimes unexpected situations necessitate less than tidy actions in the interest of time. Sprinting the rest of his way to the door, he smooths his hands over the sequins of his sweater, laying them all back flat.

For this special visitor, Papyrus would prefer to be fully presentable.

He barely gets to open the door with his normal wave and cheery greeting before swarths of black fabric come stalking in. And, of course, the tall skeleton wearing it.

“Won’t you sit down?” Papyrus asks, hovering around his guest with his best and brightest smile. Edge rolls his blazing eye lights in response, not even stopping to take off his shoes. Rather rude of him, in Papyrus’ opinion — just because they live in the middle of the forest, it doesn’t mean that it is just fine and dandy to track dirt and leaves and such inside — but he lets it go this time and this time only. 

Shutting the door, Papyrus tries for a different strategy. “What brings my favouritest grumpy neighbour visiting today?”

“I’m your only neighbour and your cauldron is boiling over.”

Papyrus cuts back a protest that it isn’t a _cauldron_ — there is a difference, honestly, and by now Edge of all people should realise that this is a mere cooking pot and nowhere near large enough to use for brewery — at the angry ruckus of boiling liquid burbling away. _Oh dear!_ Pushing at Edge’s shoulders, he strongly encourages him to take a seat at the recliner for visitors and rushes to the kitchen.

In a flurry, Papyrus tries to remedy the situation. Normally, he doesn’t mind the odd mess in the kitchen; without it, how else can he fully demonstrate his passion? The burning fires in his kitchen should match the energy in his soul! However… he also can’t afford for this current batch to go to waste, especially given that it will be a while until he can get a hold of certain ingredients again. Plus, there’s the whole matter of responsibility; considering how he lives in the middle of a forest, it would be careless to let his cooking fire become uncontrolled. 

“Lid, lid, lid…” Papyrus recites under his breath, scanning the kitchen to see where the rascally cover had wandered off to, despite its lack of feet to do so.

The scratchy brush of wispy cotton catching against the edges of sequins makes him spin around. Edge simply sneaks behind him, settling the missing lid on the pot — and honestly, he can’t believe that it was hiding within plain sight the entire time! — and taking the entire thing off the flames. He levels Papyrus a Look with an arched brow, communicating all sorts of words in a puzzle that could take ages to decipher completely.

Stars, Edge is so fun to be around!

“Thank you!” Papyrus says, quickly stepping out of the way so that Edge can set the pot down on the hearth. It may not be especially heavy — particularly for someone strong like Edge or himself — but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant to carry.

Instead of saying ‘you’re welcome’, or any other appropriately mannerly response for that matter, Edge reaches into the many layers of his robes. Bluntly, he hands Papyrus a sealed envelope. Ah. Not a social call, then. Truly a pity; he’s been waiting for a volunteer to test his new recipe on. Edge always does give the most honest of feedback, even if it can be a teensy bit harsh at times. 

Cracking the seal open with his thumb, Papyrus scans over it briefly. When he doesn’t find anything particularly urgent within it, he places it on the table. His coffee table, to be precise. As far away from his kitchen as possible without going outside, to up the preciseness another few levels. The last thing he needs is for something as important as this to catch flame. 

“Thank you for delivering this to me!”

Under his breath, Edge mutters. If Papyrus isn’t mistaken, which he rarely is, it has something to do about needing to charge a delivery fee. Then, louder, “I wouldn’t need to if villagers actually _knew_ your real address.”

“Really? I thought that ‘the witch’s cottage in the forbidden woods’ would be specific enough. Goodness knows you never had any trouble finding it!”

Edge’s scarred eye socket twitches. Poor dear. Papyrus _had_ told him that he wasn’t sure if his ‘GO AWAY!’ and ‘NOT THE WITCH!’ signs would work, even when he himself added ‘THE FOREST WITCH LIVES HERE!’ signs with the appropriate arrows all over his own front lawn. He is widely known for his fondness of puzzles, after all, and so many assume he would like to play mean tricks like that. Why, he never understands. There is nothing properly puzzling about making undeserving neighbours have to deal with business that is not their own. 

Just because he is a witch who happens to enjoy life in the definitely haunted forbidden forest, it doesn’t mean that he lacks _standards_ , for goodness sake!

A change in subject is due, Papyrus believes. The fates must be in his favour today, as he finds one as soon as he sits down across from Edge. Not that he feels the need to sit, of course, but proper hosting is an art form, according to the manual. Besides, now that he isn’t distracted by interesting letters or boiling pots, he can now see the white fur on Edge’s cloaks. 

That’s a new one. 

Now, black fur, that’s as normal as seeing the nasty scar that runs through his eye socket, as seeing the moon at night. Edge would deny it to his dying day, but at least a good quarter of the reason his closet is full of every shade of black imaginable is that it matches most of his feline menagerie’s coats. Well, that and the fact that it doesn’t show grass and dirt stains nearly as much as lighter clothes. Papyrus can appreciate the practicality of the idea, even if he longs for that day that he will convince Edge to add a pop of colour to his gothic aesthetic.

Plucking a stray hair away to examine it more closely, Papyrus asks teasingly, “Did you happen to find a new stray since I saw you last?” Edge flushes, the bright reddish-pink adding more life to his appearance. “Or did the stray find you?”

He scoffs. But — and this is a very important but, in Papyrus’ opinion — he rather noticeable does not deny it. “You’re one to talk, witch.”

* * *

Perched on the overly plush armchair offered by his host and covered by a mountain of warm, dry blankets, Edge stirred his tea, hoping it would distract away from the fact that he was avoiding taking a sip. Deep down, he longed to drink the steaming beverage. To swallow it all at once, warming his magic from the inside out. But he had heard the tales of accepting food and drink from the fae; does the same principle apply to witches? This one seemed kind enough, going so far as to offer him a change of clothes while his own dried over the fire. Yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to trust the tea while knowing that he couldn’t risk rejecting it either. Bad fortune for insulting a stranger’s kindness and all. 

He needed all the good luck he could get for Red’s recovery.

His host sat across from him in a rocking chair, handing over a tray of iced cookies. Homemade, by the looks of it, the icing lumpy even as it displayed beautifully intricate designs. These too, Edge didn’t accept. Even if the fae rules had no application, there are other sorts of stories about witches feeding guests. Although, he doubted that would be why the witch would give them to him; as a skeleton, there is very little to fatten up to eat.

“There we are!” the witch chirped. “Now, tell me more! Details are very important, you know, when dealing with all things magic and fantastical.”

Edge did.

Hesitantly, he stumbled over the words, explaining everything. The years of watching his older brother, his only family, deal with his low HP and exhaustion, barely making it in their violent hometown. Merely getting by for so long — too long. It was a hard decision, but making the move to create a new life ended up being the right one, or so he thought. Red had thrived living in their new little community of monsters and humans, and things had been getting better. Edge had been so damned sure that things were getting better, only for Red to collapse in the middle of the kitchen. Not Fallen Down, but it was all too clear that whatever was plaguing his brother was just as serious. Making the (so very expensive) trip to the healer. Edge remembered clenching his fists at his brother’s side when the healer delivered the verdict: Red’s magic was atrophying. It was atrophying at a painfully fast rate, likely to be terminal. Too likely. Over the past weeks, Edge had made the choice to abandon his brother to spend the last of his gold in vain, hoping to the angel above that somehow, somewhere, someone could help them.

“And?” asked the witch, handing over a handkerchief embroidered with delicate flowers. This, Edge did accept, wiping at the traitorous dampness rolling over his cheekbones.

Taking a deep breath, he swallowed past the thickness in his throat. The salt of his tears was bitter. “And nothing. According to the most recent opinions, he has somewhere between a few weeks and a few months to live. And I can’t live with that, I _can’t_ ,” he rushed out, taking another deep breath. And another, for the hell of it. The witch has already seen him cry; he wouldn’t be losing anything.

No response; the witch only took another sip of tea.

Ignoring the shakiness in his voice, Edge continued, “Someone in the village told me about you. That you are willing to perform the most incredible of spells. I have no money — not even a full week’s wages to feed my brother and myself — but I can earn more if that is what you demand. I’ll pay it with interest, even.” Voice cracking, he squeezed the handkerchief in his hands. “And- and if it isn’t gold you’re after, I am willing to barter anything else I have. _Anything_.”

“I see.” He twirled a finger absentmindedly; following it in perfect synchronicity, his spoon stirred itself around his tea. Tapping his chin thoughtfully, the witch said, “Now, this is a very good cause — an excellent choice on your part, really — but there is a slight problem. Just a tiny inconvenience. Although, I suppose it could also be argued to be a rather large one, too. The kind of magic to help your brother would require an equivalent exchange. A life for a life, if you will.”

The breath caught in Edge’s ribcage, a small moment that lasted an eternity. His soul felt like it was being squeezed by a vice, bursting in a combination of relief and grief and so much more. Stars, he hoped that Red wouldn’t hate him for this, but there was no hesitation when he solemnly answered, hand held over his soul in a childhood symbol of promise, “Of course. My life, my soul, everything I am and will be is yours in payment. Just please. Please help my brother.”

Strangely enough, the witch’s reaction to his statement was to blush. “I!!!!!” he exclaimed, voice pitched surprisingly high. He then stood up, not finishing whatever that statement was supposed to be, and paced, gesticulating wordlessly to himself.

Automatically, Edge prepared himself for pain. For whatever it would mean, to give his life to recover his brother’s. Perhaps this gesturing was how the witch conducted his spells? Edge didn’t know how magic worked. Perhaps this was it.

If it was, he wished he had given Red a better goodbye.

But nothing happened. The witch knelt in front of him, pulling him close. Nearly nose to nose. It made Edge feel a little cross-eyed. “My dear friend—” _Friend?!_ “—I’m glad to hear that my reputation for magic precedes me, but there is something that your unnamed villager friend has neglected to tell you! As fond as I, the Great Papyrus, am of the more mystical arts, my true passion and talent in life is…” He paused dramatically, pulling back a little with a sparkle in his eye sockets. “Puzzles!!!”

“Okay?” Edge said slowly, blinking. He was unable to move otherwise, too confused by what the hell this had to do with anything.

“And as you may know,” the witch continued, still smiling brighter than the summer sunshine, “wordplay is a very special type of puzzle. And, in my most humble of opinions, it is one of the best kinds, far superior to the junior jumble any day. Now…” he stroked his chin thoughtfully, in the way that some of the bearded elders were so fond of doing, “life can mean _a lot_ of things, particularly in the context of giving life. You are a very pretty skeleton—” Edge’s face heated up, and he broke eye contact, staring at the wooden floorboards. “—and as of right now, I do find you to be rather enjoyable. Far too enjoyable to commit indirect murder over. Even if you appear to be not very fond of my special cookies.” The witch — _Papyrus_ — said this last bit fondly scolding, like how Edge would lovingly berate Doomfanger for chewing up his slippers.

_Where was he going with this?!_

“There’s always the firstborn route. That would be a solution to your promise of giving life, but I’m not very sure if I would like to parent a child with you as of the moment, so that’s out.”

“ _Excuse me?!_ ”

“You’re excused. So,” he announced in a quiet shout, “rather than taking your actual in the most literal, rude, and murdery of manners, I would like to — pardon the pun — _propose_ to take your life in a more metaphorical way!”

Blankly, Edge blinked some more. Unless he was completely misunderstanding things, which honestly wasn’t out of the question at this point, he wasn't going to die. Red wasn’t going to die. He probably(?) wouldn’t have to give the witch his firstborn? Yet, the witch was still taking his life… somehow. Supposedly.

His confusion must have been more palpable than he realised. Taking him by the hands, Papyrus grinned widely.

“Marry me!”

* * *

Papyrus only laughs at his rebuttal, a cheery _nyeh-heh-heh_ that Edge can’t hear without breaking into a small smile. “Why, of course I’m one to talk! I do tend to do quite a lot of talking, actually. But! That’s only because you’re so charming to spend time chatting with.” Jumping back onto his feet, he punctuates his actual winks and brow waggling with an enthusiastic, “Wink wink! Now! Are you going to tell me about our newest child,” he says, gesturing to the fur clinging to Edge’s clothes, “or do I have to kittynap them to meet them myself?”

Despite himself, his smile grows. Without preamble, he digs out his wallet, flipping the photo-insert cards to his newest picture of Snowball for Papyrus to exclaim over. “There. Are you happy now, witch?” he asks, knowing that Papyrus will be able to hear the fondness woven into the dismissive words. 

He always can.

As expected, Papyrus starts oohing and ahhing over little Snowball. Standing to his feet, Edge wanders his way into the kitchen; some tea would be pleasant, and there’s nothing stopping him from doing so while sharing about how yes, Snowy _is_ a rather good boy and has been a very resourceful mouser thus far.

Tea prepared — and a mental list made regarding which herbs he needs to set aside to bring Papyrus — Edge lays everything out on one of the many dainty pastel serving trays that are lying around the cottage. For good measure, he grabs the makings for sandwiches. Both of them have been busy lately — meaning, mostly, that Papyrus has been focused on his current project and Edge had to make a few trips to the village in the past week — so they are due for spending the rest of the day together. Or more than a day, provided that Papyrus doesn’t mind joining him for a quick trip to Edge’s house overnight. The cats need their supper and breakfast (and the occasional treat to show his fondness for them), after all.

Offering Papyrus his spare hand to hold, Edge makes his way out to the backyard garden, following the neat cobblestone path. The porch swing seems like the perfect place to sit close and talk; Papyrus has never liked sitting still for long, but the gentle swaying motion soothes his need to be on the move. Besides, he needs to see how his brown-thumbed husband has been killing his beauties since the last time he was over. He has put too much damn effort into making his flowers resemble living flames, flickering in the breeze, to find out that Papyrus has been overwatering them. Again.

“Oh, and what does your brother think about little Mister Snowball?”

“Please,” Edge scoffs, “you know how Red is. He always complains that each time he comes over, he has to play the floor is lava with ‘meowing fucking menaces’ — and that is a direct quote, witch, so no complaining about foul language. But the first time I left him unsupervised when he was over yesterday, I came back to him feeding Snowball and the others illicit tuna treats.”

Grinning, Papyrus settles onto the swing. In the direct sunlight, even with the floppy sun hat that he snagged on the way out, his freckles stand out. He pats the spot beside him in wordless invitation. “Well, here’s to hoping that he doesn’t train Snowball to commit the same degrees of mischief as the others.”

“Too late,” Edge says. He pauses to set the tea tray down on the tree stump that Papyrus has repurposed into a side table. Sitting close enough for his witch to wrap an arm around him, he rests his head against his shoulder and asks, “Based on the construction noises that I’ve been hearing in the wee hours of the night, I take it that you have been working on some new puzzles. How has that been going for you?”

“Please, Edge, you already know the answers to both of those questions.”

Fair enough. “So yes, and great.”

“Naturally! And,” Papyrus continues, squeezing Edge’s hand affectionately, “do you know what else I am very great at which happens to rhyme with puzzles?”

“Why, I have no idea,” Edge deadpans. Although, the impact may be lessened by the fact that he is already tilting his head up in anticipation.

“Why, nuzzles, of course! Which is to ask if you might happen to be interested, oh grumpiest husband-neighbour of mine?”

“Always,” Edge murmurs. 

He relaxes back, allowing Papyrus to set their hats aside for easier nuzzling access. Roses, tiger lilies, and daffodils mingle with freshly brewed Earl Grey, creating an enchanting perfume that he can’t help but associate with Papyrus, of so many days spent in a similar manner. Soon, the nuzzles transform into a kiss, followed by another and another. Sweet and familiar, Edge doesn’t resist. Rather, he basks in it, letting the irritation over people mistaking him for Papyrus because of foolish assumptions wash away with each press of the witch’s teeth to his own.

All those years ago when he came seeking help, he had no plans on falling in love with the forest witch. Not even when he agreed to make Papyrus his husband had he expected the affection he feels today. But now? Now, he wouldn’t get it up for the world, because Papyrus is — and will forever be — _his_ witch.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the whole concept for this was based on [this tweet](https://twitter.com/JohannesTEvans/status/1350968549263765516), which I saw and automatically thought of Edge and Papyrus (because how could I not, lol). I then shared it with some wonderful people and worldbuilding soon followed. 
> 
> Also, here's [Rook's (achirding's) lovely art](https://achirding.tumblr.com/post/643926593375502336/these-designs-are-based-on-a-wonderful-discord), which helped bring back the inspiration to actually write this fic, along with providing some of the ideas for the boys' backstories.


End file.
